


glory be

by Chainsawlicker



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Jealousy, Light BDSM, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21684214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chainsawlicker/pseuds/Chainsawlicker
Summary: “Murphy.” He can’t sweep this under the rug again. He won’t. “We can’t go on like this. I’m hurting ye and...and for some reason, yer letting me-”
Relationships: Connor MacManus/Murphy MacManus
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	glory be

**Author's Note:**

> This fic almost ended up in the trash more than once. Thanks to DrSchaf for helping me save it, for reading it several times and for their patience with my extras spaces.

He and Murphy are but wee lads when they customize one of the rosary prayers to suit themselves. It’s years before their mother overhears them whispering it.

Sitting at the kitchen table, legs still not long enough to touch the ground, stinging soap taste coating their mouths, they listen as she berates them. He tries to explain that they had not meant to be blasphemous. The prayer just fits them. 

His Ma scowls across the table. “Ye mustn’t rewrite the Lord’s words. It isn’t right.” 

He scowls back and frantically tries to think of a plan to get them out of this. 

“Connor, when ye boys replace “the father, the son and the holy ghost” with “ye and me”, ye are saying ye love each other more than God.” 

“But we do,” escapes Murphy’s mouth before Connor can kick him. Oh shite, Murph. 

That remark earns them more soap in their mouths and confinement to their room with no dinner, but does stop their Ma’s verbal tirade, so he considers the situation a draw. 

Connor lies in bed, mouth in a grimace from the soap. Across from him, on his own bed, Murphy glares at the ceiling, hands curled into fists at his side.

“It’s not right, Connor. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Shhhhhh.”

“We’ve been saying it for _years_. And I told the truth and-” 

Connor cuts him off. “Murph, please.”

“But I told the truth and why are we in trouble for that and now we’re locked up and hungry and-”

“STOP. Stop talking. Yer making it worse.”

Murphy stops talking.

He gets up and moves to Murphy’s bed, pillow clutched in one hand. “It’s okay, Murph.” He climbs in, pushing his brother to make him move over.

“It isn’t.” Murphy’s eyes shine wetly. “That prayer was _ours_. She had no right to take it.”

“No one took shite from us. We just have to…” He pulls the sheet over their heads. “...keep secrets.” 

They’re alone in a world of white. A homemade tent. A tiny piece of heaven. They turn on their sides, forehead to forehead, and whisper their prayer together in defiance. 

“Glory be to Ye and Me. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

***

Every step on dry land makes him feel a bit better. Thank Christ and all the angels. 

By the time they’re through customs and in the city of Boston, he feels hungry for the first time in four days. They walk by a hamburger place. The cool spring breeze wafting the smell of crisps through the air makes his mouth water, but he keeps them moving until he finds a motel that looks cheap enough. 

There’s some sort of odor in the room he can’t identify. He decides it’s just the way a typical motel room in America smells, so that he won’t dwell on it. Murphy doesn’t seem to notice - he faceplants onto the only bed, a double with a hideous pink rose print spread. Dust rises up. Murphy sneezes, rubs his nose, closes his eyes and doesn’t move again.

Connor sits at the small table, lights a cigarette and grins around at the tiny, stinky room. He’s thinking clearly for the first time in days. The last four days at sea, he’d been a trembling, vomiting mess. The worst part had been enduring it without Murphy, who had worked back-to-back shifts to fulfill their passage contract. Fucking hell it was.

Connor stubs out his cigarette and yawns. He unlaces Murphy’s boots and pulls them off, dropping them with loud thuds to the worn carpet before taking off his own and stretching out on the bed. Motionless. Still. Finally. Blessed are Ye, Lord God. Blessed are Ye forever. Holy is Yer name. Blessed are Ye forever. Great is Yer mercy for Yer people. Blessed are Ye forever. He shifts one leg until it’s touching Murphy’s and the rest of the prayer floats away.

They sleep.

Later, after showers, Connor figures out how to get a pizza delivered while Murphy ventures down the hall and returns with two Cokes and a bucket of ice. 

“America!” They toast their tiny plastic cups together, making a clinking sound with their mouths.

“Ye have a plan?” Murphy asks around a mouthful of pizza. 

“Of course. Plan is: get a place. Get jobs. Make friends. Run for Mayor.” 

Murphy punches his shoulder. “How ‘bout just tomorrow?”

“Find the Irish neighborhood. Go from there?”

“Aye, brother. I feel like I could sleep a whole fucking day though.”

“Fucking double shifts. I know it wore ye down.”

“Work is work. Hated leaving ye sick like that. Ye look a ton better now - not even green anymore.” 

Connor nods. Fucking hated it too. “I feel a ton better.” He lights a cigarette and taps the almost- empty pizza box. “Fucking good.” 

Murphy smiles, reaching for the pack of smokes while still chewing, half a crust in one hand. He swallows. “Aye. Savage.” 

They smoke quietly, listening to the unfamiliar street sounds and letting the pizza settle. 

After a rather startling car horn noise from outside, Connor slaps his brother on the arm. “Yer shattered. Let’s sleep.”

They wash up, strip to boxers and crawl into bed. Lying on their backs, their shoulders’ press together from the lack of space. Connor is glad for the contact, after enduring days of illness, mostly alone, and everything, _every thing_ , being foreign and strange except for Murphy. He shifts so their arms touch to the elbows. It feels warm and safe. 

“Con?”

Connor rolls over to look at him.

“Do ye think it’s a wee bit scary being in a whole different country?” Murphy asks the ceiling, sounding somewhat embarrassed. 

Aye. Connor touches his shoulder, his brother’s skin warm and smooth under his fingertips. “World without end, deartháir?”

Murphy pulls the sheet over their heads, creating their sanctuary. Their own world where it’s okay to love your brother more than God. They lie on their sides, foreheads touching, and whisper their bastardized prayer.

“We’re gonna be okay?” Murphy asks, biting at his lip.

“Aye.” He flashes his reassuring smile. Never let anything happen to ye.

“I was fuckin’ scared to death when ye got sick,” Murphy whispers, closing his eyes and gripping the back of Connor’s neck.

“Murph.” Connor waits for Murphy to open his eyes. When he does, his own swim a little they are so close. “We’re grand, yeah? Always. ‘As it was in the beginning, is now and always will be.’”

Murphy kisses him. 

Soft and dry, then harder and wet. Oh, aye, aye. A warmth spreads through him, starting in his chest and rushing outward through his limbs and into his head. He kisses back on reflex, without thought or hesitation as if their mouths against each other is the most natural thing in the world. 

Murphy presses in, pushing his chest against Connor’s. He licks along his bottom lip and Connor’s mouth opens automatically.

The warmth grows hotter and Connor lets instinct guide him, sweeping his hands over Murphy’s back leaving a trail of goosebumps. Touching anywhere, wherever, everywhere he can reach — each touch familiar and unfamiliar. He circles one hand around his brother’s arm, just above the elbow, squeezing tightly - a sudden desire to leave a mark. 

Murphy breaks their kisses, tilts his head away. They stare breathlessly at each other, shrouded by the sheet. 

His heartbeat throbs in his throat and he wants to know if Murphy’s does as well. He touches his brother’s neck, slides his fingers around, palm warm and just below the jaw, thumb across the throat. Murphy swallows and Connor can feel it - can feel the throat muscles working under his thumb. His cock jerks, straining, trapped against fabric. 

“Murph,” he says, low and needy, almost a whine. 

And Murphy is kissing him again, abruptly, boldly, tongue stroking across the roof of his mouth, hand sliding down to his waistband, dipping under. Murphy pushes his boxers down, fingers stroking and curling around his cock. His breath stutters. 

“Jesus.” 

He slips his hand into Murphy’s boxers and his fingertips brush over Murphy’s cock causing a drawn-out hiss from his brother that travels along his spine in a shiver. His own cock is leaking, and Murphy glides his hand through it, leaving damp trails over the length of him. The feeling of it makes him groan - his world diminished to only Murphy and his fingers and his mouth.

He fists his brother’s cock and strokes slowly, kissing him, marveling at the whimpers and growls, fucking _growls_ , from Murphy. 

The hand stroking him feels so good —heat, grip, slip, squeeze. So fucking good. Murphy nudges his legs open, sliding one knee between his thighs, sweat slick, pushing upwards until it wedges against his shoved-down boxers. 

Rutting forward, he thrusts his cock deeper into Murphy’s grip, his mouth tighter against his brother’s —noses bumping, teeth scraping. Connor circles over the tip of his brother’s cock, wet with precum, palming it with a squeeze. Murphy inhales, inhales, inhales...creating little hitching sounds in his throat, and all the blood leaves Connor’s brain forever.

When Murphy comes, his hand stutters on Connor’s cock, almost stops, stroking erratically and off-rhythm. It doesn’t matter because Connor is coming from the feel of Murphy’s come on his fingers, warm, wet, _sticky;_ coming from the sound of his own name, shouted out, growled out, _howled_ out. 

He opens his eyes. Everything is shimmering white and vibrating, and he thinks momentarily that they’ve died and gone to heaven. 

Murphy laughs, rushing breath over his cheek, and wipes a tacky, sticky hand on his arse. 

“Oh, ye fucker!” Connor yells, spells all broken. He tears off the sheet and swipes his own hand down Murphy’s chest, lungs bursting with the effort of trying to catch his breath and laugh at the same time. Fucking good.

After they clean up and crawl back into bed, Connor falls asleep before remembering to think about what just happened. He dreams of a land filled with incandescent light - where the air smells of Murphy and the earth is made of his skin, the grass of his hair and the wind carries the sound of his laugh. 

When they wake the next morning, he tells his brother, “Last night I dreamed of heaven.”

***

They’re arguing on the steps of the public library near their apartment. 

“Best two out of three?” 

“No, Murph. I won fair and square. It’s ye.” 

“Fuck ye. I’m not doing it. Two outta three.” 

Connor sighs and holds out his palm. Murphy grins, then frowns when Connor wins easily with rock over Murphy’s scissors.

Asking “Best three out of five?” earns Murphy a shove and a glare. 

They go into the library. Connor sits at the most isolated table he can find. He stares out the window and tries to not look like someone who plans to fuck his own brother. 

Murphy staggers over to him, overloaded with books. He must be carrying at least twenty, and he looks beautiful standing in a shaft of sunlight, aglow like an angel. 

His heart stutters and he almost says, “I love ye more than anything ever”, but he swallows that and instead says, “Shite, Murph, we just need one, probably.”

Murphy gives him the stink eye and sets the wobbly stack down. He selects a maroon book and places it face-down in front of Connor, then splits the stack of books and arranges them on the table, effectively forming a book tower of privacy. 

Connor nods. “Fucking brilliant.” He flips the maroon book over - _The Bible of Gay Sex_. Murphy crowds in next to him. They open it and bend their heads to read. 

In their two short months in America, since that first night when everything had changed and nothing had changed, they’d figured most of it out by trial and error. But actual fucking... 

Connor underlines “lubricant” with his finger. “We’re dumb as fuck.”

Murphy nods, then whispers, “Not it”.

Fuck. He scowls about being the one that has to buy the slick.

They read on. 

After a bit, he looks out the window again, planning what he wants to do to his brother, while Murphy flips through the book. When he starts to get hard from thinking about it, he turns to Murphy, ready to say “let’s go, aye?”, but stops. Murphy’s staring at the book, face flushed, mouth slightly open, tongue peeking out from one corner. Connor looks down at the page. It’s a black and white picture of a young man tied face-down on a bed. He’s naked and ropes bind his wrists and ankles to the bed posts. 

“What are ye looking at?” 

Murphy slams the book closed. “Nothin’.” 

He suddenly feels heavy and very warm. “Aye. It’s something. That got ye hot. I can tell.” He raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Want me to tie ye up then?”

Murphy’s “fuck off” is too loud and comes with a shove. Other patrons and a girl shelving books look over.

They abandon their table and the books, leaving quickly. 

On the way home, they stop at a drugstore. Murphy waits outside. Connor takes forever looking for the lube, refusing to ask anyone and finally finding it near the pharmacy, by the condoms. There’s a bunch of different kinds. He selects the most expensive reasoning it’s probably the best and there’s no way he’s going to fucking stand here and read all these bottles. The cashier is cute and blushes over his purchase. He can’t get out of the store fast enough. 

On the sidewalk, he slaps Murphy in the chest with the bag, grins and cuffs the back of his head. “Not it.”

Murphy stops walking for a second, then grins back and shoves Connor. 

At home, they’re nervous. He puts the lubricant on the table between their beds and they tread carefully away from both the topic and the bottle itself. 

Lounging on their beat-up couch pretending to watch their beat-up tv, he nudges Murphy to ask for a cigarette, and his brother nearly leaps off the couch at his touch. This won’t do at all.

Connor goes to the kitchen and returns with two beers and the whisky bottle. They drink.

And then drink a little more. He abstains from the whisky himself. The plan is _Murphy_ being scuttered, not him. After several beers and more than a couple shots, Murphy's possibly closer to drunk than tipsy, but he’s relaxed and laughing now. 

Watching him look around for the lighter he’s holding, Connor grins. “Ye got it, brother.” He slaps Murphy’s lighter hand. Eejit. 

Murphy uncurls his fingers and looks at the lighter. He snickers and smiles cheerfully at Connor.

Connor smiles back, his chest suddenly tight with emotion. Fucking love ye.

“What?” Murphy asks, blinking slowly. 

He gets up and sits himself on his brother’s lap, knees digging into the old beige couch. He tilts Murphy’s face up and brushes his hair back. 

Murphy slides his eyes to the side, then back to Connor. He wrinkles his nose and chuckles. “What, Con?”

“Yer beautiful,” Connor says. 

Murphy’s eyes go wide. “Yer drunk, deartháir,” he mumbles, blushing and ducking his head.

He pulls Murphy’s head back up. “I’m not.” With a fingertip, he traces over the bones of Murphy’s face. “Ye have to know this isn’t just for some kind of physical pleasure, aye?”

Murphy tries to look away, but Connor holds his head, holds his gaze. 

“I’m in love with ye.” 

Another blush from his brother, and his heart swells, warming him from the inside. Suddenly Murphy’s kissing him and all he can think of is the lube in the bedroom. They stumble-walk, kissing, to their room and tumble onto the nearest bed.

“So, I’m thinking…” He pulls Murphy’s shirt off, sliding his fingertips along the collarbones, delicate, strong, over the shoulders, wide, touchable, _gripable_. “Ye got great fucking shoulders,” he mutters, distracted.

“What?” 

“Nothing. Um, I’m thinking we should have a safeword.” 

Murphy’s eyebrows rise up. 

“Because...if I need to back off or stop for a minute or stop completely...ye could say the word.” He shrugs, embarrassed now.

“Fine. Take off yer shirt. What is it?”

“What’s what?” He pulls his shirt off.

“The safeword,” Murphy mumbles into his ribs, tonguing his way down Connor’s body. 

“Oh.” Fuck, his mouth feels like velvet. “I was thinking: Protestant?” 

Murphy’s breath in a laugh causes goosebumps to rise on his wet skin. “Aye. Grand. Get yer fucking pants off, please.” 

He stands up and gets his pants off. Murphy holds him there by his hips, bending his head to lick and mouth along his cock. Connor closes his eyes momentarily, enjoying the sensation. When Murphy starts to build a rhythm, he tugs him up by his hair.

“Face up or face down?” he asks breathlessly. 

“Down.”

When Murphy is naked and stretched out on the bed, Connor snatches the lube off the table. He drops it and then again when he tries to pick it up, earning a small snicker from Murphy.

“Shut it.” He wipes his brow, hand trembling a bit. “Labhair liom. Murph, talk to me.”

And his brother does, reporting into the mattress how it feels, when to pause, and when to keep going. 

Murphy deems himself ready quicker than Connor imagined, so he keeps at it, fingers slick, tired, buried, until he hears the little growling sounds he knows his brother makes when he’s really turned on.

He slicks his cock, wraps his fingers around Murphy’s hip and tugs. “Turn over. I wanna see yer face.”

Murphy turns over, flushed, hair a mess, and looks at him like he is a fucking saint. Connor presses in, whispering soothing words against Murphy’s mouth until they are flush. Connected like never before. 

Murphy inhales deeply, lets the breath out slowly and growls, “Move.”

He moves and Holy Christ in heaven. Fuck. God. Fuck. Hot, tight, gripping, fucking _encased_. He shifts his angle and Murphy arches his back.

“Fuck, Con. Aye. Like that, like that.”

Connor holds himself up by his arms, fucks into his brother, dividing his attention between Murphy’s hand stroking himself and his face and the sensation grasping his cock. Into, inside, within, _exclusive_. Everything tightens, intensifies. 

“ConConnorfuck,” Murphy mutters, moving underneath him.

He watches his brother’s face as he comes - head thrust back, teeth sunk in, tendons standing out. Fucking beautiful. He wants to keep this somehow - this feeling of glory, this image of Murphy’s face - and he tries to memorize the moment, capture it and store it in his heart forever. 

“Murphy, Murph, I…” He can’t finish, his voice lost.

His brother kisses him, muttering against his mouth, “loveyoufuck.” He lifts his legs and wraps them around Connor.

The move sends a shudder through his body and his arms give out. Collapsing on Murphy, come smearing against his stomach, he groans. Love and want twisting inside his chest, tightening. Bow tight, wire tight, one breath and he’s coming inside Murphy. Heaven can’t possibly be better than this. 

*

The next evening after his turn to bottom, Connor lies in bed, sated, smoking, sore, and asks, “Why did ye kiss me that first night? That first night in America.”

Murphy rolls onto his side, props up his head and shrugs. “Don’t know. Just...wanted to.”

“Had ye ever wanted to before?” 

Murphy nods.

“When and why then? Why not before?”

His brother shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Well, there must be some reason, some catalyst or some-”

“Shut it.”

“But, Mur-”

Murphy hits him on the chin, fairly hard for someone who is mostly lying down. 

“Ow!” He scrubs his fingers over the spot.

“Connor.” Murphy rolls on top of him, stares down. “I’m in love with ye too. _Please_ shut up.” He lays down like a blanket, snuggles in, nuzzles in, burrows in.

He shuts up. Murphy is warm and heavy and loves him. He shuts right the hell up. 

***

“So then…” Rocco pauses to giggle furiously. “Then the fucking cat started meowing again!” He falls off his bar stool laughing. 

Connor chuckles. Guess ye had to be there. He swigs his beer, but it’s empty and his head sort of feels like it’s spinning. “I’m done. Where’d Murph go?”

Rocco points across the bar. “Over there. Getting lucky, looks like.”

Struggling into his heavy winter coat, Connor follows Rocco’s wobbly index finger, sauced mind grappling through the words. There’s Murphy at a table in the corner. He’s talking to someone. 

Connor heads for him and is halfway across the bar before he realizes the someone his brother is talking to is a girl. A pretty red-headed girl. And she’s flirting with Murphy. 

He stops.

For a minute, he feels nothing but the beating of his heart. It’s thudding so strongly that he thinks he can hear it over the din of the room. He watches as she picks a piece of imaginary lint from his brother’s shirt. 

What the fuck? 

She touches Murphy’s shoulder. 

He moves. 

“Murphy!” He bites the name out, gruff and mean.

When his brother looks up, Connor frowns and jerks his head towards the door. 

Murphy stands and pulls on his coat, saying to the girl, “We gotta go. It was nice talking with ye.” 

“Can’t you stay a while longer?” she protests, grabbing onto his arm. “I was really enjoying getting to know you.” 

Connor shakes his head and steps forward, glaring. Shrinking backwards, she releases Murphy. He shoves his brother even though Murphy’s already started to the door. After turning to glare at the girl one more time, he follows. 

The walk home is silent. His heart pounds with anger and something else. The small drum of a thought that is — Murphy doesn’t feel the same, he doesn’t feel the same, feel the same, doesn’t. He shakes the thought away and focuses on how angry he is that someone, a stranger, some _girl_ , touched what rightfully belongs to him.

He slings their apartment door open, shoving Murphy in and slamming the door behind them. Jerking him around by the arm, Connor pins him against the door, crowding in. He fists a handful of hair and pulls his brother’s head back. 

“What the hell was that, Murph?” 

Murphy blinks and opens his mouth, but Connor covers it with his hand.

“Don’t talk. I’ll talk. I’ll do the talking.” He pulls a little on Murphy’s hair. “Don’t ever do that again. Ye understand? I’ll not have others looking at ye like that, _touching_ ye like that. Ye understand?” He moves his hand to grip the jaw, shaking Murphy’s head up and down in agreement. 

Satisfied, he leans in, mouth to Murphy’s ear. “Say it’s only me. _Say it_.”

“It’s only ye.”

They look at each other. Murphy doesn’t say anything. Or do anything. Only looks back with an expression in his eyes Connor has never seen before - eager, yielding, tractable even. 

His cock twitches, filling out in an uncomfortable way in his jeans.

“Fuck ye! Fucking arsehole.” He digs his fingers in and hisses in his face. “Don’t fucking flirt with people. Don’t give people the impression yer fucking available.” He shakes Murphy’s head around. His brother just stares back with that same, _fucking hot_ , expression. “Ye fucking understand me? Say that ye do.”

“Aye,” Murphy says, with that growling sound that makes Connor’s cock even harder.

Shrugging out of his coat, he strips off Murphy’s and grips him by the shoulders, grinding his fingers into the flesh and pushing him down. “Get on your knees.” Tremble and _throb_ against the zipper when his brother drops down and tilts his head back, looking up, waiting. He opens his belt, shoves his jeans and boxers down, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“Suck me.”

And Murphy does. He leans forward, slides his mouth around Connor’s cock, gliding down, engulfing. 

“Ah, fuck. Aye. Aye.” Connor moans, cupping the back of his brother’s head. Murphy hums around him, making shameless sucking noises so loudly that Connor barely registers the jingle of his brother unbuckling his belt. He narrows his eyes. This is absolutely not about Murphy getting pleasure. This is about teaching him a lesson. Connor winds his fingers into Murphy’s hair and pulls. “Stop.” 

Murphy stops, belt undone, button unsnapped, and moves his hands to grip Connor’s hips instead.

He takes over, wrenching Murphy’s head back, standing awkwardly on tip toes to get the angle he wants. Connor fucks into his brother’s mouth, into his throat, down, deep. There’s a tiny voice in his head whispering, “stopstopstop”, but he ignores it and focuses on making sure Murphy remembers who he belongs to. 

His brother is gagging some, but his hands still grip tightly at Connor’s hips and his mouth and his tongue...oh fuck… 

He’s coming. He’s buried in Murphy’s throat and he can hear and feel Murphy choking on it, on _him_ , then it’s over and he’s swaying on the spot, panting, trembling. He pulls up his jeans and falls to his knees. Murphy’s coughing, mouth puffy, eyes watering. 

“I’m sorry. Are ye alright? Fuck. I’m sorry.” Connor hugs him, rubbing his back and muttering apologies until the coughing stops. He sinks back onto his heels and surveys his brother.

Murphy smiles. 

It’s fucking startling, unexpected. His mind blanks for a minute. For the first time ever, he doesn’t understand what his brother is thinking. He opens his mouth without any sort of proper question formed…

Murphy kisses him. Kisses his open mouth and takes his hand, settles it on his zipper, over his hard cock, whispers, “Fuck, Con,” with a raw voice and thrusts against his hand.

Connor unzips the jeans, reaches in, stroking. They keep kissing and there is no sound at all, save for a faraway siren, only the sound of their mouths and of Connor’s hand and the little gasps and growls from Murphy. 

When Murphy comes, Connor whispers against his mouth, “Yer mine. Yer mine. Yer mine.” He lets him go, wiping his hand on his jeans, and stumbles toward the bedroom barely hearing the rough, gravely “aye” behind him. 

Flopping onto his bed, he lights a cigarette, fills his lungs and blows out at the ceiling. Too far. That was so fucking hot. And too much. Is Murphy hurt? What if he’s hurt? Is he mad? The way he knelt down when told. Fucking aye. Did he like that girl? Why did he smile like that? Jesus Christ. What if he’s mad? What if he’s hurt? 

He gets up, mouth and nasal passages burning, and goes to look for Murphy, easily finding him on the sofa in front of the telly, eating cereal straight from the box. 

Murphy laughs at something on the screen and looks up at Connor. “Apple Jacks?” he asks, waving the colorful box in the air. 

Connor shakes his head and goes to bed. His brother is fine. Murphy’s fine. Normal. Same as ever. But, still, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, thoughts swirling uselessly through his head. After a little while, Murphy comes in and bumps around until he settles in his bed and falls asleep. Some time after that, some long time after that, Connor sleeps. 

*

The sun wakes him, streaming through their uncovered windows. A headache thuds behind his eyes and his stomach rolls. Fuck. 

In the kitchen, Murphy is drinking coffee. Connor pours a cup and sits at the table. He pushes the pens and markers away and pulls the ashtray closer. 

The table has a scarred wooden top and doubles as a message board - it’s covered in notes, scribbles and doodles: “Ma called”, “toilet paper, beer, toothpaste”, “Rocco was here.” He picks up a pen and idly draws a cross. 

Murphy talks about laundry in a strangely hoarse voice and pauses to blow a smoke ring at the ceiling. When his head is tilted back and the sunlight hits his jaw, Connor sees small, purplish bruises on his jawline. Bruises from Connor’s fingers. Bruises from when he held him by the chin. Right before… 

“Fucking Jesus, Murph.”

“Lord’s name.”

Connor crosses himself. His voice is hoarse because. Because. "I’m sorry. I- Fuck. I’m really fucking sorry."

Murphy frowns. “It’s only laundry. Honestly, it’s my turn. I was just joking with ye.”

Connor shakes his head. Why isn’t he mad? “Not the laundry.” He looks at the table. “Last night.” 

Murphy stands, the chair screeching against the linoleum, and goes to the sink. 

Connor addresses his back. “I’m fucking sorry. I don’t-”

“Forget it.” 

“But, I just-”

Murphy wheels round, strides toward him and grabs his shoulder. “ _We don’t have to talk about it._ ” He lets go. “It’s fine. Don’t even worry about it, aye?” He grins. “We’ll do the laundry together, alright?”

Connor nods and tries to shake off his apprehension. If Murphy wants to just forget it, then okay, he’ll try to forget it as well. 

***

It’s the fourth of July - that big American holiday. They’re patriotically drunk in a crowded McGinty’s. Murphy has taken to yelling, “Happy Birthday, America!” every half hour or so and the whole bar whoops and cheers. It’s good. He finds himself smiling at nothing in particular.

“Can we share your table? Do you mind? It’s so crowded tonight.” 

He swivels his head up and sees two blond women. Two smiling, pretty, blond women. They’re seated across from them before he has time to say anything. 

Murphy becomes quite chatty - making the girls laugh and being genuinely engaging. 

Connor sulks. “Let’s call it a night, yeah?” 

The girls protest, the one closest to Murphy sliding her hand along his arm.

“Naw. Let’s stay. We got this charming company and all.” He grins at Connor. His eyes are sparkling, excited.

No. Fuck no. He slams his hand down on the table, loud enough to make the girls jump. “Let’s fucking go.” He grinds the words out between clenched teeth. Under the table his hand finds Murphy’s thigh and he digs his fingers in. 

“But, Connor,” Murphy whines. “These lasses need entertaining.” He grins at his brother, eyes dancing with a look Connor knows well. A look that means - has always meant - a combination of ‘Ready?’ and ‘I dare ye’. 

Fuck ye, Murph. He reigns in his temper, so that he doesn’t just drag Murphy up from his seat, which he itches to do. His pulse throbs warmly in his temple. Leaning in, close to his brother’s ear, he hisses, “Go home.”

Murphy stands up. The girls protest as he honest to God walks out without saying another word.

Connor is momentarily stunned and then quickly follows. He catches Murphy halfway down the block and grips his arm, intent to start screaming at him right there on the street, but his brother doesn’t even glance over. He just keeps walking home, focused like he‘s completing a task. He keeps an iron grip on Murphy’s bicep anyway and steps up his pace so he can drag his brother along somewhat. 

In the shitty lift, he lashes out. “Fuck ye, brother. Ye were fucking outright flirting. Don’t deny it.”

But Murphy isn’t denying anything. He isn’t saying anything at all. He’s just standing there in the lift, eyes still sparkling, looking like he’s waiting, expectant.

Connor drags him into the hall. “What do ye have to say for yerself?” He unlocks the door and kicks it all the way open before he turns on Murphy. “Well?”

“Connor,” Murphy says, stepping inside. “Just do what ye want.” He pulls his shirt off and drops it, arms outstretched. An offering. 

Oh, aye. Oh fuck aye. Certainly fucking will.

He kicks the door shut. “Get naked now.” Watching his brother shed the rest of his clothes, anger raging like a fire inside his chest, he rips his shirt over his head and gestures toward the kitchen. “Go stand at the table.”

Murphy does as he’s told. 

Something whispers in Connor’s head, but he can’t hear it because of the roar from the anger fire. He strips to nothing and marches over. He grips Murphy’s shoulders and shakes him. “Yer mine.” Shaking. “ _Say it_.”

“I’m yers.” 

“Fucking right.” There’s a black sharpie with a fat tip on the table. He snatches it up and turns Murphy around, bends him over the table, onto his elbows. Connor begins to write on his back, Mo cheannsa. Mio. Mien. Mon. Mea. Mine. He writes until he runs out of languages and repeats until he runs out of skin. He stands back to look at his handiwork, places his hand between Murphy’s shoulder blades and pushes. “All the way down.” 

Murphy turns his head so his face is in profile. Connor slides a hand into his hair and leans over his brother, his cock curving against his arse. “Want me to fuck ye, Murph? Or is it that ye want to fuck some girl? Is that what ye want?”

“I want ye.” 

“Then I’ll do what I please to ye.” He touches Murphy’s mouth with two fingers. “Open. Suck.” 

Murphy does. 

He wastes little time with the prep; pushing in even though Murphy’s not ready. It’s fucking tight. He narrows his eyes and starts to move. 

Murphy arches and pushes back against him, making some sort of humming sound that fills Connor’s senses like a dense perfume. 

He keeps his hand on the side of his brother’s head, pushing into the table. It creaks and groans, pens and markers roll off and onto the floor, and he’s saying “Mine, mine, mine” like some kind of chant.

“Con-”

He pulls Murphy’s hair. “Shut it unless I say,” he orders, but he slides his hand underneath to stroke his brother’s cock, hard and leaking. His wrist smacks the underside of the table with each upstroke, a penance. The table shrieks against the linoleum in protest to his thrusts.

Hearing Murphy’s voice brings an idea, a craving. What he needs, what he wants, what would be so unbearably hot - is to hear his brother talk, to _make_ him talk. Holding himself as still as he can, cock buried in slick warmth, stalling the hand stroking Murphy, he asks, “Who do ye love? Tell me.”

“Ye. I love ye. Connor...move.”

He fights against the desire to pull back and plunge in. Breathing out, he stays still. “And who’s the only person allowed to touch ye?”

“Ye. Fuck.” Murphy humps forward, but Connor doesn’t resume stroking him. “Ye, ye, only ye. Fucken _please_.”

His brother’s begging is so good, fucking satisfying. He’s momentarily torn between drawing it out or pumping away. Just a bit more. “And ye belong to me? To only me and no one else?” 

“Aye,” Murphy shouts, sounding strangled. “Fuck, please, Con. Aye, aye. I belong to ye. I’m yers. Please fuck me. Jesus.”

He grins down at Murphy’s ink covered back and begins to move again. His brother moans, trembling under him. It’s mere moments before Murphy clenches around him, suddenly spilling over his hand, and then he is coming hard himself and something shatters. 

It was the ashtray, he realizes after, lying sweaty and spent on Murphy's back, blinking at the broken pieces amidst a sea of butts and ashes. Grey cloud settling. He pushes off and pulls Murphy up and around to face him, holding on because Murphy’s legs are shaking and he’s making little hissing sounds that Connor knows mean ‘ouch, ouch, ouch’. 

“Are ye okay? Murph, are ye alright?” 

Murphy nods, resting his head against Connor’s shoulder for a minute. He kisses the shoulder, soft and gentle, and then leaves for the bathroom and shuts the door. 

Connor stretches and coughs and looks down at himself. 

There’s blood on his cock. A light smear of it along the shaft. 

He washes himself at the kitchen sink, heart pounding, hands shaky. Holding his breath to calm his heartbeat, he walks to the bathroom and slips in. It’s foggy, humid, the shower running behind the curtain. 

“Murph?” His voice quavers.

“Hmmmm?” comes the reply from the shower.

“Yer bleeding?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

“Just a bit. It’s fine.”

It is not.

“What the fuck? Did ye forget the safeword?”

Murphy peeks out with dripping hair and a nice smile. “Didn’t need it.”

“But, yer bleeding, I...no. Just fucking no. This isn’t-”

His brother jerks the shower curtain closed, shouting, “Fucking hell, get out! Shut up! Just go to fucking bed.”

He goes without even brushing his teeth. Curling up in the blankets, he closes his eyes and pretends everything is grand. 

*

He wakes first the next day. There’s no lag in his mind this time. He wakes up with the memory of holding his brother down on the table and fucking him. 

While the coffee brews, he looks at the broken pieces of ashtray in the garbage and the trail of ashes where Murphy had swept them under the cabinet edge with his foot. He makes a cup of coffee, lights a cigarette and sits down at the table.

The scene of the crime. 

He’s a right bastard himself, is what he is. Just thinking about it in a remorseful way makes him hard. Why is controlling his brother so hot? Why does Murphy let him? Does he like it? Could he like it? Why was he fucking flirting with those girls? Why didn’t he use the safeword? 

He thinks about writing a note on the table for Murphy: “I left because I can’t stop being a bastard.” “I left so you can find a girlfriend.” “I left because I think I like abusing you.” 

His stomach rolls. O my God, because you are so good, I am very sorry that I have sinned against you and by the help of your grace I will not sin again. Amen.

Murphy walks in yawning, makes a cup and sits. “Maidin mhaith,” he mumbles, closing his eyes while he drinks. Then he peeks over the rim of his mug. “What’s wrong with ye?” 

“Murphy.” He can’t sweep this under the rug again. He won’t. “We can’t go on like this. I’m hurting ye and...and for some reason, yer _letting_ me-”

“Aw, come on. It’s not a big deal. I’m not hurt. Ye didn’t hurt me.”

“I don’t want to do that again.” That’s a fucking lie. “But, I feel like, like I will anyway.”

“Con, listen, it’s fine. Just let it go. Forget it.”

“We need to talk about this.”

“ _We don’t,_ ” Murphy hisses. He’s staring at the table as if he’s incredibly interested in reading the grocery lists and messages. He’s embarrassed. 

“Why are ye…” he trails off, looking out the window, not seeing anything, only thinking. “Murphy.” He waits until his brother looks at him. “Do ye...Did ye...Did ye flirt with those girls on purpose?”

Murphy frowns and lights a cigarette. 

“Did ye maybe _want_ this to happen?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Murphy glares at him. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Well, I do. I want to know what’s happening. I want to know if ye liked those girls.” 

“I don’t fucking like anybody but _ye_. Now. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

“But ye like what happ-” 

Murphy punches his shoulder. Hard. “Christ, Connor.” He stands up and dumps his coffee cup into the sink so violently the handle breaks. He’s shirtless and his back’s covered with the word “mine” in various languages in Connor’s unmistakable handwriting. It looks really sexy.

What the fuck? He closes his eyes and begins to pray silently. Lord, I reach out to you for your guidance. Please show me which way to turn. Calm my anxious thoughts, come speak into my mind…

Murphy goes to the bathroom and shuts the door. After a minute, Connor hears the shower come on. 

He finishes the prayer, takes his coffee and goes to sit on the fire escape. He smokes and tries to think rationally about everything that’s happened between them since the first moment Murphy slid his head forward one half of an inch and grazed his mouth against Connor’s lips to last night and comes to the conclusion that Murphy most likely wasn’t interested in those girls But he does like… Connor tosses his butt over the rail and goes to brush his teeth. There’s a word for this; it’s eluding him, but he knows where to find it.

Two hours later, he exits the library and lights a cigarette, blinking in the sunlight. On the walk home, he forms a plan.

***

He finds the waiting hard. The waiting to execute his plan. His plan to force the necessary conversation. The go-ahead has to come from Murphy, who knows nothing of the plan. Connor desperately wants to know if everything he thinks is correct. As weeks turn into months, he finds himself in the confessional more often, but only discloses his smallest and most mundane sins to the frustrated priest. 

He starts to push, helpless to stop himself. 

*

A nudge. 

After a dinner where they actually tried to cook instead of just getting take-out, Connor grins at his brother and gestures around the kitchen. “Glad it’s not my turn to wash the dishes.”

Murphy frowns. “But it is yer turn. I did it last night.”

“Last night, ye threw away the take-out containers and left two glasses in the sink. It’s still yer turn.”

“Fuck ye.” Murphy grins and hits him in the face with his balled up napkin.

They wrestle until Murphy pins Connor. He gloats. “Got ye. And it’s still yer fucking turn.” 

Connor pushes him off, struggles upright and hauls his brother up. And because he can’t _not_ , because he’s a loser with no self-control, he lifts Murphy’s head with two fingers under his chin, tightens the grip he has on his arm until it’s bruising and says, “Wash the dishes now.” 

Murphy stares at him for a beat, then he turns and starts stacking their plates and glasses. 

Connor’s cock fills out so fast, it hurts. He rushes to the bathroom, gets into the shower and jerks off under the warm water - nothing in his mind but the look on his brother’s face when he turned to clear the table.

Emerging in sweatpants and dripping hair, he finds the kitchen clean and Murphy sitting at the table with an expectant look on his face.

Connor walks up to him, runs his hands into his hair. “Good job.”

His brother looks up, his eyes sparkling and his smile wide. “Aye?”

He drops to his knees and presses the heel of his hand into Murphy’s erection. “Aye. Ye did a grand job.” He unzips Murphy’s jeans and looks up, watching his brother’s eyes slide shut and his tongue peek out from the corner of his mouth. Fucking love it when ye look like this.

*

A prod.

Walking home from work, he tucks a cigarette between his lips and snaps his fingers. 

“Light,” he demands. 

Murphy rounds on him and lights his cigarette without talking, staring at him over the flame, that fucking whatever-ye-want expression in his eyes, bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

He doesn’t even _look_ around. Just drags Murphy into the nearest alley, pressing him against the bricks, hand covering his throat, fingers along his jaw, keeping his mouth against his own. A heady rush from the way Murphy just _allows_ him. Pressing into him, pressing him into the bricks, shoving, shoving, tongue, hips, need it, need ye, _want._ It takes a car alarm blasting on repeat for him to realize he’s making out with his brother in some random alley on their route home at six pm on a work day. 

Shitshitshit. Get a grip, man. Get a fucking grip. He steps back, pulls Murphy off the wall; they glance around and move on quickly. 

The rest of the way, he chain-smokes and thinks about what he can make Murphy do to him when they get home, his will to wait for the necessary conversation blowing away like dandelion seeds in the wind.

When they round the corner, Rocco is on their stoop, waiting to drag them out for pizza and beer. He sends a quick prayer of thankfulness to the Holy Mother for their loud and hairy friend. 

*

A shove.

Murphy finds a rubber hand ball on the way to the laundromat and proceeds to bounce it on every random surface while their stuff washes. He sets up a rhythmic whack, kerthump, smack during the drying process - bouncing it into the floor so it hits the wall and returns to his hand. Whack, kerthump, smack. Whack, kerthump, smack. Whack, kerthump, smack. Whack, kerthump, smack. 

“Murph, it stopped.”

Whack, kerthump, smack. Whack, kerthump- 

“Murphy!”

His brother starts, missing the ball and turning to stare at him.

“Did ye hear me just tell ye to empty the dryer?”

Murphy shakes his head, swallowing thickly.

Connor grabs his wrist, _squeezes_ and says gruffly, “Go empty the fucking dryer now.” 

Murphy rushes to the task, shoving clothes from the dryer into their duffel. Watching him, Connor’s resolve evaporates like water vapor. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is the small sound Murphy makes in his throat when Connor whispers, ‘good boy’ and how fast they can get home. 

They run the last half block and fuck so hard just inside the apartment, they break the door knob off, Connor pulls his hamstring, and Murphy ends up with a five inch carpet burn running along his spine. 

On their trip to the hardware store for a new door handle and the drugstore to buy Neosporin for Murphy’s back, Connor limps along, thinking about bringing it up anyway, forcing the conversation; without waiting for the undeniable proof he wants to get his stubborn brother to admit the truth. 

Murphy says “quit it” before he can say anything. He glances over, but his brother speeds up so he only gets a glimpse of an embarrassed ear. 

He knows he’s losing his grip and prays for the impetus - the catalyst he wants to launch the conversation they need to, _have to,_ have. He prays for it to come soon.

***

He always imagined it happening at McGinty’s. Maybe because that’s where it happened twice before. Once, he even chatted up a couple girls there, but nothing came of it - except for Murphy frowning ferociously at him from across the bar. 

When it finally does happen, they’re at Rocco’s. It’s a party. Some sort of Halloween thing with Rocco grumbling over their lack of costumes. The party’s only just getting really swinging when a tipsy girl dressed as a cat stumbles into the loveseat they’re hogging. 

“Oops.” She giggles and tries to squeeze in between them. 

He can almost feel Murphy’s decision and his stomach tightens in a knot of emotions. 

Murphy puts his arm on the back of the loveseat. “Scoot over, Con. Let this lass have a seat.”

He stands up and the girl falls in beside Murphy. She cozies into his side and Murphy doesn’t even spare her a glance, eyes only on Connor.

It’s harder than he thought it would be. He says a quick prayer to St. George for courage and takes a deep breath. “Naw. Ye have fun. I’m gonna go home.” And he walks out, feeling Murphy’s eyes _burning_ into his back, ignoring Rocco’s “Connor, where ya going?”, every muscle taut and trembling.

At home, he waits, pacing around their bedroom. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. What if he’s wrong? What if right now… what if right now Murphy is kissing that catgirl? What if she is pressing her body against his… He halts. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Just as he decides to head back, the door slams open and then shut. His brother’s shouting his name in an angry voice, and relief sweeps along every nerve. He lays down on his bed, lights a cigarette and tries to look nonchalant.

Murphy storms into the bedroom. “What the fuck?”

He looks over, eyebrows raised in innocence. “What?”

Murphy blinks, furrows his brow, but plows ahead. “Ye left Rocco’s party.” He stalks over to the bed, adding, “Without me!”

He shrugs. “Why didn’t ye stay? Why did ye follow me home?”

Murphy starts to step back, but Connor grabs his arm and pulls him down on the bed. He doesn’t let go. 

“Is it because ye didn’t have any interest in that girl and were just using the situation to yer advantage? Because ye don’t like girls. But ye do like me getting mad and jealous and taking charge and fucking dominating ye.” His heart pounds like it’s trying to get out. Pleasepleasepleaseplease.

Murphy tries to pull away, but Connor already knows this move is coming and pins him with one swift, rolling movement. He stares down at his brother, whose face is scarlet, eyes squeezed shut. 

“It’s okay. Ye don’t have to be embarrassed but we’ve got to talk about it. We have to.”

Murphy shakes his head back and forth against the sheets, eyes still shut.

“Brother, please, please.”

Bucking against him, Murphy struggles to get away and won’t open his eyes. 

“Stop.”

Murphy stops fighting.

“Open yer eyes and look at me.”

Murphy opens his eyes. They shine wetly. 

He sits up and pulls his brother against him, saying into his shoulder, “I can make ye talk to me. I can tell ye to do it. But I’d rather ye trust me. I want ye to tell me. Just tell me.”

He sits back and they look at each other. Prayers run on repeat in his head until Murphy fingers the sheet and looks at him. They shed their boots and climb into bed, pulling the sheet over their heads.

“Glory be to Ye and Me. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

Murphy swallows thickly and Connor puts his hand on his cheek. “Ye can tell me anything. A chuisle mo chro. Don’t ye know that? Ye are eternity.” 

His brother takes a deep breath, looks right into his eyes and says, “Yer right, of course. I do like it and I’m trying to get ye to treat me that way by talking to girls. Not that first time though - that was when I realized. Um. That I like that. That I’m…” he looks away “...like that.”

“Why is it so hard to tell me?”

“Because it makes me feel like…” Murphy pauses for words before he finishes, “like I’m saying yer the older brother.” He rolls onto his back and pulls the sheet down.

Connor sits up and plucks at Murphy’s shirt, saying softly, “Take this off so I can touch ye.” 

Murphy pulls off his shirt and lays back down. 

“I went back to the library. I read more in that book.” He pets Murphy’s chest and stomach with his open hand.

Murphy raises his eyebrows. 

“This is...it’s - it’s fucking incredible, but we have to be on the same page. I’m really into it. Yer so fucking sexy when yer like this. I’ve been holding back. A lot.”

“I know ye’ve been holding back. That’s why I had to do the flirting-with-girls thing again.” 

“That’s why we _have_ to have this conversation. I’m losing my grip on it. I’ve got to know what yer boundaries are - what ye want or don’t. Because ye are the one with the power, brother. That’s what the book says. Yer the one really in charge. Ye set all the rules and I abide by them.”

“Aye? Really? I’m in charge?” 

“Ye are. Yer the one with all the power. So, can ye tell me some things ye don’t want me to do?”

Murphy thinks for a minute and then shrugs. “I can’t think of anything.”

“So, it’s okay for me to piss on ye, then?”

Laughter bubbles up from Murphy. “Come on, ye already know a bunch. We don’t have to start from scratch.”

Connor shrugs and traces different sized circles over Murphy’s chest.

“I can think of one thing.”

“Aye? That’s grand. A good start. What is it?”

“I don’t want to be teased about it or made to feel bad about it. At all. During. After. Ever.” He clears his throat.

“Aye. That’s a good one. I will never do that. Can ye think of more?”

Murphy thinks but after a while, he just shakes his head.

“But ye are to tell me when ye do? And use the safeword if it happens during, aye?”

His brother nods.

Connor strokes fingertips over his torso. “Can ye maybe tell me things ye do want me to do?” He grins when Murphy doesn’t have a problem thinking of anything.

“I like it when ye tell me what to do - orders, ye know? When ye hold me down and when ye grab me really hard and tight. When ye pull my hair. I like that a lot. I like it when yer rough. And make me beg.” He takes a breath. “I like it when ye write on me, too - that’s strangely erotic.”

Connor slides his hand down to Murphy’s waist and unbuckles his belt. “When I was reading the book at the library, I saw that picture again. I’d forgotten about it.”

“That picture of the guy tied down?” 

He laughs. “Ye certainly remember.” He crawls on top of Murphy, holds his arms down. “I bought ye a present.”

“What?” Murphy asks, his face flushed and hips arching up to rub against Connor. “A present?”

Connor nods and climbs off. “It’s in the closet. Go get it.”

His brother hops up and goes to the closet, bending over, rustling with the bag. “Ah, fuck, Connor, fuck.” He turns around smiling wide, holding a coiled rope. 

Perfect fucking plan. Connor basks briefly in relief and happiness before he commands in a low voice, “Take off your pants.”

Murphy unzips and eases his jeans and boxers off one-handed, without letting go of the rope in his left hand, and stands perfectly still, waiting for instruction.

Connor smiles, triumphant, jubilant. “Good boy. Bring the rope to me.” He feels like his heart might break open. As it was in the beginning, is now and forever shall be, world without end. He touches himself, watching his naked brother walk obediently towards him, hard as steel.

Glory fucking be. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
